


The Crossroads We Share

by endofmessage



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Gift Giving, M/M, Panic Attacks, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sort Of, Sugar Daddy, The Lonely Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), The Lonely as a Metaphor for Depression (The Magnus Archives), The Magnus Archives Season 4, because let's face it, peter absolutely would
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:08:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28390674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofmessage/pseuds/endofmessage
Summary: “What do you think?” Peter asks as they stand side by side, alone.Martin pauses to think. It’s difficult to form words, as though he’s been struck dumb. The haze in his mind seems to have taken everything from him, filled his entire being with grey fog.“I don’t,” he says in the end. “But that’s a little bit just the point, isn’t it?”Peter chuckles, and it’s odd how familiar his laugh sounds now. He can feel Peter’s gaze boring into the side of his head, but he refuses to meet it.“Isn’t it just, Martin. Isn’t it just.”-There's an art to being alone. Slowly, Martin begins to master it.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas, somewhere in the middle - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	The Crossroads We Share

**Author's Note:**

> i cater to the very specific audience that enjoys soft peter/martin. if that's you, hello!
> 
> title taken from I Want To Feel Alive, by The Lighthouse and The Whaler

He feels dead.

God, how he _wishes_ he were dead.

Or at least, he thinks he does. Really, Martin hasn’t wished for much in a long, long time. What is there to wish for, to want, when everything is empty and grey? He is nothing but the dull, barely-there weight in his chest, and the tears that prickle at his eyes yet never seem to fall.

He’s unsure of how long he’s been standing here. Sitting, standing, kneeling, lying, it makes no difference. The world is muffled, numb, and something feels distinctly ajar, but he’s so tired, and who _cares_ if it’s wrong? Who cares, when he can just continue to be as he is. Unaware, unmoving, alone.

Lonely.

Awareness rushes through him as a high pitched whistle fills his ears, and Martin finds himself hands and knees on the floor, panting heavily as _everything_ falls back into him, memories and feelings slotting into place once more, and he returns to himself. He’s Martin again, and he’s as whole as when he’d started out in this cold world.

For a minute, there is nothing but the off-rhythm of inhale, exhale, his heaving chest (still with that dull weight, because that never goes away) and the cold floor against his palms.

Martin looks up at last, into the foggy blue eyes of Peter Lukas. 

“So that was the Lonely,” he says quietly, when he’s regained his breath.

Peter nods, a smile tugging his lips upwards. It’s a lopsided smile, one that would seem genuinely friendly and cheerful if there wasn’t something missing from his gaze. “That was the Lonely,” he agrees mildly. “You weren’t in there long, since I figured a first timer, even one suited to serve our god such as you, wouldn’t take to it so easily.”

_Our god. Ours._

Martin closes his eyes, and if he breathes quietly and slowly enough, he’s almost back there. Back in the endless fog that filled his lungs and left him feeling both weighed down and light as air. An empty head and an empty heart, with only the barest hint of connection attesting to his existence.

“You know,” he says at last, opening his eyes again. “I actually think it went quite well.”

As his smile sharpens, morphing into a leer, Peter nods slowly.

“Excellent.”

  


* * *

  


Martin tugs dully at the sleeve of his sweater, having finally completed all the tasks Peter had assigned him. Really, the majority of his work now is running the institute, he isn’t even doing inane secretarial work. When Peter had stepped into Elias’s position, he’d immediately found it– what was the phrase he used? Oh yes, “dreadfully humdrum”– and sent it all over to Martin.

It isn’t too difficult, mostly just telling investors and donors that they would have to wait for a little while to book another appointment, as the head of the Institute was otherwise occupied and other small, boring tasks.

He hasn’t seen Peter recently, although this is no surprise. The man tends to appear at the oddest, most irritating times, blabber on for nearly half an hour, then disappear with barely a word of farewell. Martin doesn’t mind it though, and he quickly grows accustomed to feeling a sudden presence over his shoulder, or Peter billowing into existence from a haze of fog.

Taking off his glasses, Martin rubs tired eyes with the heels of his hands, wincing at the gritty feeling that hours of staring at a screen filled with page upon page of budgeting spreadsheets had left him. He feels hungry, thirsty, and incredibly tired, but in a way that’s oddly muted, more so than they should be after hours of motionless work.

But as he rises to go find some hot water to make tea with, he feels the familiar prickling of raised hair at the back of his neck, and his shoulders stiffen.

“Peter,” he says, not bothering to turn around. “Long time no see.”

Out of the corner of Martin’s gaze, Peter Lukas walks around, to Martin’s left, and takes a seat atop the desk. It was as if no one ever taught him that chairs existed.

“Martin! Pleasure to see you. I’m surprised you haven’t gone home yet. Quite late, isn’t it, for a work day?”

Martin casts his eyes over to the clock and sees with a faint twinge of surprise that it is indeed later than he thought. “Must’ve lost track of time,” he shrugs, meeting Peter’s ever-empty gaze. “It’s a good thing, isn’t it? Sitting alone for hours, time passing by without my noticing?” 

Peter tilts his head, smile twitching upwards on the right. Lopsided and, as always, oddly close to genuine for someone who was flat, grey, all faded static.

“You’re right,” he acknowledges. “I’m awfully pleased that you’ve settled so well into your new…” he waves a hand, filling up the space in time while searching for the right word, “temperament.”

“Right,” Martin says shortly, turning back to his laptop. “I’m almost done, so if you need something then just wait for a bit, thanks.”

Peter hums in agreement and settles on the edge of Martin’s desk, as though there wasn’t a perfectly good chair, right there, for his seating pleasure. Whatever.

Martin returns his focus to the spreadsheets with tired eyes and a sense of displeasure at being disrupted. He might’ve been done with his work for the day, but he wasn’t going to let Peter Lukas have his immediate attention by any means. 

“I’m finished,” he says at last, and Peter startles from his position on the desk.

“Already? Excellent.” 

Martin decides to not point out that it had been quite a few minutes, and he deliberately dragged out the time in hopes that Peter would give up and go away.

“Already,” he agrees instead.

“Well, now that you’ve finished up, I think it’s time for another little test run, don’t you?”

“What?” Martin asks, brow furrowing in confusion. Then he notices the fog that’s been swirling around the both of them, that seems to have both just sprung up, and been there all along.

“Oh.” 

“‘Oh’ is right,” Peter replies jovially. “This time, I think I’ll be with you. Not _with_ you, of course, I still want you to experience the Lonely as it is, purely a solitary experience. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you, so to speak, see how you do in there.”

Martin shrugs. “Sounds good.” There wasn’t anything else he could respond with, really.

Peter gestures at him. “Whenever you’re ready, then.” 

“Whenever I’m– oh, alright,” Martin says, feeling mildly off put. He didn’t feel fully prepared for this, especially since the first time hadn’t really been on purpose at all. More of a spur of the moment, happy accident situation, beginner’s luck in the form of a slip-up. But Peter was waiting. He couldn’t afford to disappoint.

He lets his eyes close, feels the static that always accompanies Peter’s entrances and exits build around him. It’s almost like he’s magnetic, pulling the fog and white noise closer to him, piece by piece. With the rise of that whistling, high-pitched whine, Martin disappears into the fog.

It is dark this time.

Not _Dark_ , no, everything’s still visible, and when Martin raises his hand, he can see it clearly in front of his face. The world was just dimmer, like the fog had thickened around him, swirling and powerful. Martin stands alone, in a place that doesn’t feel quite real, like he’s fallen out of his body and into a world where existence, where being real and tangible, is an entirely debatable concept.

“Hello?” he calls out. His voice doesn’t carry at all here, and seems far quieter than usual. It feels like there’s cotton in his ears, stuffing in his head. Isolation.

Peter doesn’t respond to his call. Nothing does.

So, without any idea of what’s to happen next, Martin sits to wait in the Lonely.

Seconds pass, or perhaps hours. Time’s already becoming a bit of a foreign concept, with the way he shuts himself in his office with the curtains drawn, works himself to the bone, but here, it is an entirely separate feeling of _wrong_. The world seems to have stopped, but not frozen. 

It feels like it’s ended. 

The world has ended, and the only remnants are this patch of grey land, and Martin. Alone, floating, forever. Nothing lives outside of this, nothing exists but him, sitting cross-legged in the Lonely, until the final second of eternity comes.

And then almost as suddenly as it began, it was over. Martin blinks once, twice, and the office swims back into view, this time with a nice view of the eggshell white ceiling, and the overhead lights.

Oh. He’s lying on his back. Feeling mildly dizzy, Martin sits up, bracing himself against the side of the desk.

“Hello? Peter?” 

No response. Typical.

He stands carefully, gripping the edge of the desk for support. When he manages to get himself reseated, he finds a note on top of his (now closed) laptop.

_See you around. Well done.  
– P. Lukas_

  


* * *

  


He’s suffocating. 

Martin clenches his hands into fists, nails digging into the flesh of his palms, as he wills himself to breathe, _just breathe, get past the lump in your throat that is killing you as you fight for air._ There is nothing but the lightheaded rush of no air, nothing but his heartbeat slowing as it pounds in his ears. Everything is going quiet, and is simultaneously so painfully loud.

He stepped into the break room for tea earlier. Usually, he didn’t leave his office. Too much of a risk, running into people, and he wasn’t skilled enough to travel through the Lonely, or wear it as a cloak like Peter seems to do. So he keeps a little electric kettle in his office, buys a water cooler, and makes his tea all alone in the comfort of his small, quiet room.

But today, the kettle wasn’t working, and he thought (foolishly) that it would be okay if he just went in for a few quick moments, just for one cup of tea.

Unfortunately, the universe seems to be conspiring against him.

They enter when the water is halfway through boiling, and he instinctively flattens himself against the wall, pressing into the corner as much as possible. When he was younger, he’d done similar things, squeezing into tight spaces and trying to be invisible, so that they would all leave him alone, and just go _away_.

It wasn’t effective, of course. He was, and is, too tall, and large, and despite all his efforts had never been able to go unnoticed. He hated it, more than anything. The height was from his father, after all, just like his nose, his face.

Even if his mother never said it, she’d been terrified of him at times, and disgusted at others. Elias had confirmed as much.

He was a towering presence once. Now, he is nothing, if he tries hard enough.

But it’s hard, and he’s panicking, and any ability he has to fall in and out of the Lonely on command is slipping through his fingers. Martin is stuck, pinned like a butterfly against the wall while he fights to keep the fog around him, because he can’t afford to lose all the progress he’s made because of one cup of damn tea.

The two unfamiliar coworkers take so, so long to leave, and end up making their own tea from his boiling water, which takes even longer (and how rude, Martin thinks distantly, how rude of them to take his water. The thought is absurd, but so is the situation, if he looks at it from an outsider’s perspective). When they do finally leave, Martin tears up the stairs back to his own office, and promptly has a breakdown, shaking in mute terror on the floor beside his desk.

It’s been so long since he was like this. He thought he’d gotten past this childhood shyness that had morphed into teenager antisocial behaviour and untreated anxiety. The nervousness that had never really gone away, had just become easier to mask, to struggle through day after day. Even when he couldn’t hear anyone over the pounding of his heart, over the rushing noise in his head, Martin had gotten better at being _normal_ , being friendly.

Because he knew that his appearance was at least a little bit intimidating. A kind face doesn’t fix height or size, and even if he isn’t the most obviously muscular body builder type, he doesn’t look weak by any means.

Now, though, Martin isn’t threatening, or kind, or friendly.

He’s just scared.

Eventually, the pounding of his heart dies down, his breathing smoothes out, and Martin finally feels his muscles loosen. He leans his head back against the desk, closing his eyes in exhaustion and relief. The cool surface helps to soothe the waves of dizziness in the wake of everything that has just occurred.

“You did well, if that helps you feel any better.” 

He screams– or tries to, it comes out like a squeak– and promptly smacks his head on the underside of the desk.

Peter Lukas is kneeling beside him, surprisingly neatly, with his head tilted slightly as he stares at Martin. He would’ve looked like the picture of polite concern, if not for how his eyes remained so blank and apathetic.

“How– how long have you been here?”

He shrugs, pursing his lips lightly as if in deep thought. “A while. Not too long though.”

“Right, great, that really helps,” Martin replies, feeling the slight rush of blood to his cheeks. He’s well aware that he’s an absolute mess at the best of times, but it’s always another thing to have someone else watching him lose his cool. Carefully, he gets to his feet, wincing as his back protests and his legs burn.

“Well,” he says, after a moment of awkward silence, “was there something you needed? Or were you just here to give me something else to do?” The words come out more biting, more blunt than he means them, but Martin’s past the point of really caring.

Peter beams, rising to his feet as well. “Oh no, just thought I’d stop by. Absolute coincidence, me coming in at the time I did.” 

“Sure.” 

“Sure!” Peter repeats, parroting him. “Anyways, how was it for you?” 

Martin frowns, his brow creasing. “What do you mean?”

“You’re getting stronger, you know,” Peter says, matter-of-factly. “It’s quite an accomplishment, I’m very impressed.” At the look on Martin’s face, he adds, “Really, I am. Of course, I did much better, but I was raised for it, after all.”

Martin grimaces. “Humble brag,” he says under his breath. And then louder, “I thought you said I was as well? That’s why you picked me, isn’t it?” 

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Allow me my moments,” he says, still smiling. “And no, not quite. You’ve lived on the fringes of the Lonely for a while, which _is_ why I picked you, but you weren’t raised the way I was.”

“What, rich?” 

Chuckling, Peter shakes his head. “No, Martin. Truly Lonely. You were lonely, but I was brought up to be truly alone. There’s a difference, subtle as it may be. Something Elias would point out, it’s his type of distinction. Which is rather irritating, but the best way to put it.”

Even though he isn’t fully sure what Peter meant, Martin nods. “Alright. I really ought to be getting back to work,” he says, gesturing vaguely at his desk.

“Well, don’t let me keep you!”

“Right,” Martin says slowly, turning to sit down at his desk. When he looks back over his shoulder, Peter is already gone.

He closes his eyes, feels the Lonely tugging at him. “Back to work then,” he says to the empty office.

  


* * *

  


Martin remembers the nights that feel like decades ago, but were really only maybe two years in the past. Him, staying late at the office in order to impress Jon (or maybe just to prove he wasn’t incompetent) and finding the other man sprawled at his desk, asleep. It took a while to wear Jon down and set up a cot in the storage room, but he was glad of the long half-arguments they’d had, because he’d won in the end. Everything was worth it, to see Jon asleep in that cot rather than curled awkwardly at his desk.

Martin had tried too hard for him, hadn’t he?

At any rate, he couldn’t help but feel a little hypocritical as he wakes up to a puddle of half-dried drool on his cheek and arm, at some god-awful time.

He sits up, grimacing as various parts of his neck and shoulders revolt against the sudden movement. A glance at the clock shows him that it’s 1:49 in the morning. 

Not exactly ideal.

He wonders if he should go home. It wasn’t as though he was likely to get mugged. But he’s tired, exhausted really, despite the hours he’d already spent asleep. For a brief moment, he lets his eyes fall shut again. Silence swaddles him, thick and suffocating, but somehow soothing in its own way. An embrace from someone you don’t particularly like, but have grown accustomed to.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s in the Lonely.

“Are you kidding me?” he asks, standing up. The chair he was sitting on is gone now too. He looks around, not entirely sure of what he’s expecting to see. People? Buildings? Of course, there’s nothing. Everything is just dull, hazy, a muted grey void.

“Well.” He takes a careful step forward, then another, and soon begins walking briskly forwards, footsteps soundless against the not-quite-ground. It’s almost nice, peaceful really, to not have anything to do but walk. 

Time passes oddly in the Lonely. He remembers Peter mentioning it once, offhandedly, after Martin scolded him for being late to yet another meeting on budgets for the Institute. 

“I did my best, Martin,” he says with a shrug. “The Lonely doesn’t work that way. Time doesn’t make sense, or flow smoothly. It’s faster sometimes, and much slower at others. I’ve never been able to get it quite right, but I’m usually fairly close. Back in the day, I was always days late to things. Really quite unfortunate.”

Martin snarked back something about taking the Tube instead if his Lonely travels were so difficult to pinpoint, and Peter just laughed.

Now, walking alone, he can finally accept that Peter hadn’t just been making things up as an excuse. Martin feels exhausted one moment, as if he’s been travelling for days, and perfectly fine the next. The gentle crashing of waves against the shore tugs him back into awareness, and he blinks.

Looking around, he appears to be standing on a beach, and the fog has retreated slightly to reveal sand and the sea foam from waves rolling gently in and out. Martin reaches down and takes a pinch of sand between his fingers. It feels real enough, grainy and crumbly, slightly damp as well. Taking a few steps closer to the water and kneeling, he drags his hand through it. That feels less real, less like his hand was in water and more similar to–

He doesn’t know how to describe it, but it doesn’t feel like water should.

Standing, he casts a glance to the right and startles in surprise. Looming out of the fog is a lighthouse, tall and proud, made of weathered stone bricks that seem like they’re about to crumble in front of his eyes.

“What on earth?” he murmurs to himself, almost ready to slap himself and check if this wasn’t actually some stress induced dream. But no, it’s real, and he feels drawn to it. Like there’s something, or someone there that he _has_ to see.

_Don’t have anything to lose, do you?_

As the tide goes back out, he begins making his way towards the lighthouse.

When he reaches it, he has to pause for a moment, lean against the walls to catch his breath. Slowly, Martin walks around the lighthouse, trying to find a door. It’s a gunmetal grey, old looking door, and he wastes no time dithering at the entrance. Grasping the doorknob and twisting it, he pushes inside.

A wide open space greets him, with nothing much but a coat hanging on a hook near the bottom of the staircase. Martin closes the door behind him and walks across the room to take a closer look. It’s Peter’s coat, of course. 

The stairs look uninviting, narrow, and creaky, practically their own “do not enter” sign. He stares at them for a moment before sighing, “might as well,” and taking his first squeaking step.

What he finds on the next floor is oddly charming and altogether unexpected. 

The living space is cozy, with a table, small kitchenette, bookshelf filled with thick, heavy looking texts, and the odd ship in a bottle, as well as a small bedroom space off to the side. Everything is sparse, and there are few decorations. It oozes an impersonal sense of unintentional minimalism, and should be all rights be entirely uninviting, but Martin feels welcome here, somehow.

He doesn’t poke around much, feeling as though it would be too intrusive, and so climbs on up the stairs.

When he feels like he can’t climb anymore, and is almost ready to sit down and give up, he reaches the light, and Peter.

There’s a beat of silence while he ponders what to do. Greet him, or remain silent? The second seems to fit their circumstances, but Peter’s never been a typical servant of the Lonely.

“Hi,” he says, feeling a little foolish.

Peter turns around, his silhouette outlined against the gleaming lantern. “Hello,” he says pleasantly. “Took you even less time than I expected. I’m pleased, Martin, this is excellent progress.” 

“Er, thanks?” He shouldn’t still be as thrown by the praise Peter tosses his way, with how common and empty it feels, but it still surprises him every time.

“You’re welcome,” Peter responds, beaming at him.

Martin meets his gaze, and just like every other time, can’t help but notice just how empty Peter’s eyes look. Vacant, unseeing, as though neither of them are really there.

He thinks about the time Jon asked if he was a ghost and has the distant urge to laugh.

_Did you know, Jon? Was that your prediction of my future?_

Instead of giving in, he walks closer, past Peter and to the railing, looking out over the vast expanse of fog and gently crashing waves. Soon after, he hears gentle footsteps, and a presence is by his side. It’s off putting, in a world that’s built on isolation, thrives because of it.

“What do you think?” Peter asks as they stand side by side, alone.

Martin pauses to think. It’s difficult to form words, as though he’s been struck dumb. The haze in his mind seems to have taken everything from him, filled his entire being with grey fog.

“I don’t,” he says in the end. “But that’s a little bit just the point, isn’t it?”

Peter chuckles, and it’s odd how familiar his laugh sounds now. He can feel Peter’s gaze boring into the side of his head, but he refuses to meet it. 

“Isn’t it just, Martin. Isn’t it just.”

(They leave the Lonely eventually, Peter citing Martin’s unfinished work as the reason. He guides Martin back the way he usually travels, and it’s different from the hapless wandering through the mist that it had taken to bring him here. This way he feels almost safe, protected, in a way he’s never felt before.

Still alone, but safe.

It’s quiet, inside the Lonely with Peter. In the following days, he finds himself missing that more than he expected.)

  


* * *

  


It happens in bits and pieces, small moments that would come and go almost unnoticed if they weren’t all that Martin’s living for, all that he cares about. Like sand trickling through an hourglass, building slowly, steadily, things are beginning to change.

Peter stays longer now, talks more. He’s always been talkative, and Martin took a while to wrap his head around a servant of something called the Lonely being such a bloody chatterbox, but after weeks of getting to ‘know’ him– because they never did really know each other, even after hours of Peter blathering on– it was clear that the absence, the aftermath of their conversations, was far more powerful and fuelling than any long-term loner.

But his talks were beginning to turn into real conversations. Peter begins to ask for Martin’s opinion, and actually engages with it; they talk, really talk, back and forth, and Martin can’t help but find it charming in all the ways he shouldn’t.

(“How do you think I take my tea?”

“You like coffee, Peter.”

“Yes, but if I didn’t, how do you think I would take my tea?”

“I’m busy, with work that _you’re_ supposed to be doing, I might add.”

“Martin, if you really want, I can just make this all go away. Who cares about Elias’s stuffy old institute and his budgeting spreadsheets?”

“Elias does, and I’m not hedging my bets on him being in jail forever, so if you don’t mind me, I’ll keep working.”

“But how do you think I’d take my tea?”

“Splash of milk, three sugars, now will you leave me alone?”

“Will you make tea for me sometime?”

“Peter, you are a grown man–”)

And sometimes, when Peter’s not there with him and Martin’s worked himself sick, alone late at night in the Institute, he finds himself thinking about those conversations. In ways he shouldn’t, in ways that aren’t _lonely_. It brings a smile to his face though, and makes everything just a little easier.

There’s also the gifts.

_Gifts_. Peter brings him gifts now, and it’s peculiar aside from the obvious because some of them are things that Martin would never ask for, but all things he likes. He doesn’t know how Peter does it.

There’s a little box of tea leaves one day, unbranded but with such ornate decorations and packaging that Martin doesn’t dare to imagine the cost, and it smells of autumn, of leaves changing colour and the bite of winter air coming to the surface.

He mentions offhand that his old infuser is rusting, and a new one is packaged neatly on his desk the next day.

A glass float appears once, and it’s absolutely gorgeous, a beautiful green-blue cradled in netting, and he hangs it by the window, where it spins slowly and catches the sunlight. He’s given more of these, and soon there’s a small collection, all hung by the window and refracting small shards of light around his room.

Peter catches him violently shivering in the midst of one of their more meandering conversations, because the air conditioning in the Institute was brutal and Martin had forgotten to pack an extra layer. A few days later, there’s a knit sweater, similar to Peter’s but a dark blue instead of grey, neatly folded on his desk chair. 

Though Peter never asks about the gifts, Martin wears the sweater often, and he could swear that when the other man sees it, he’s a little happier than usual.

The gifts are always meticulously packaged, in neat brown wrapping paper or nondescript paper bags, with twine and tissue paper, and Martin can’t help but be touched by this gesture.

Unfortunately, despite all of this, there is a problem. 

Peter begins slipping away for weeks at a time, to god knows where, and Martin’s often nearly torn his hair out with frustration by the time he returns, blaming some problem on the Tundra and presenting him with a gift to add to the steadily building pile.

This all comes to a head, of course, when Peter disappears again. But instead of a week, or even two, a month passes and Martin is positively drowning in calls and reschedules and _“no, I’m sorry, Mr. Lukas isn’t available right now. No, I don’t know when he will be, terribly sorry for the inconvenience”_ ’s.

Finally, after fending off a particularly shrill-voiced caller, Martin’s done with it all. If Peter won’t show up so they can both do their jobs, then Martin’s simply going to drag him back, kicking and screaming if need be.

He sits back in his chair, wearing the sweater Peter gave him, and lets his eyes flicker shut. By now, he’s realized that it’s not concentration that gets him into the Lonely, not a matter of turning on your inner force or activating some secret powers.

Martin exhales, and falls.

He opens his eyes to the grey fog and a dim, distant glow from the lighthouse.

The door is left slightly ajar when he reaches it, and Martin enters, closing the door without a sound. It’s not a matter of stealth. No, Peter must know he’s here. Only a matter of courtesy. As he walks up the stairs, footsteps echoing, Martin collects himself, trying to think of what to say. He’s nearing the top now, and still doesn’t know.

Peter’s back is to the stairwell when Martin reaches the light, his long hair drifting aimlessly in the breeze. Martin knows that Peter knows he’s there, and so skips past the niceties to call out, “do you have any idea how many missed calls you have on that phone we bought you?”

When Peter turns around, he’s smiling broadly, which unfortunately for him, just makes Martin want to punch him even more. “Ah, Martin! Congratulations on taking the next step in your journey.”

“What the hell do you mean, Peter? I don’t have time for this and neither do you, so just come back to the Institute so I can get my job done and go home early for once.”

“You’re here,” Peter says, instead of responding to his words.

Martin rolls his eyes. “Really? I had no clue.”

“You came looking for something, Martin,” Peter says, his face bright with excitement. “You came here looking for me. With a purpose, with an intent bigger than the need to escape, or travel, or even just on accident. You’ve grown so, so powerful, and I personally, am delighted.”

A moment is all it takes. A moment is all Martin needs, to lose himself and for his rationale to abandon ship in favour of letting words spill out that shouldn’t have been thought, much less spoken.

“Is that all you care about?”

Peter stills, and his hands drop from their spread out gesture to his side. There’s a long, tense pause, and then Peter asks, too gently, “Martin, what do you mean?”

_Well, no going back now_.

“Is everything you’re doing– has all of it just been because you want me to be some ideal servant of your god?” He fights to keep his voice level, to maintain that professional air of courtesy which at this point might as well have been thrown over the railing. “Everything you’ve done for me, with me, was it all just for that?”

“Martin,” Peter says, and it’s almost pitying, if it weren’t for the undercurrent of _something_ , of an authenticity that’s not quite tangible enough to define.

He shakes his head furiously, shoulders raising. “No, don’t ‘Martin’ me, this isn’t just me being silly or fanciful, or hoping for something that’s never going to happen, because something _is_ happening, Peter, and I–”

“What do you think is happening, then?”

“I don’t know, Peter! I just– you keep bringing me gifts, you’re nice to me, in ways that you don’t need to be to get what you want out of me, and it’s horrible and I wish you would stop!” Martin bursts out.

They stand there together, and Martin feels somehow both viscerally enraged and entirely detached from the whole affair.

“I’ll stop, if that’s what you’d like.” When Martin doesn’t respond, Peter presses on. “If that’s what you’d like, Martin.”

“I don’t know, Peter,” he says wearily. “Why can’t you just be normal?”

“I don’t know either. Isn’t it strange, what we both don’t know?” Peter replies lightly, with that stupid little smile and the slight crinkle around his eyes.

Martin leans against the railing, feels cold iron press into his back. “I like what you’re doing,” he admits. “It’s just… confusing, you know? When normal people do that kind of stuff, it means they–” he breaks off, before barreling onwards, “– well, that they _like_ you.”

“I do like you, Martin. As much as I can, at any rate.” 

He shakes his head, and laughs a little, because isn’t it absurd, how his life has led up to explaining romantic customs to a servant of a fear god in the eternal fog soup?

“No, Peter, not like that. ‘Like’, as in the romantic sense.”

_“Oh.”_

It’s almost funny, hearing the realization in his voice.

“And I don’t think it’s presumptuous to assume you don’t, well, you know.”

“I don’t,” Peter responds evenly. “It’s not you, I simply have no interest in pursuing anything within that realm.”

“Right, got it, I’ve heard it all before, Peter.” It’s surprising how bitter he feels about the whole exchange. “No need to sugarcoat it.”

“But I do like what we have,” Peter says, ignoring Martin’s words entirely. “It’s pleasant, in a way I didn’t think it could be. Haven’t done this before, not with someone like you.” 

“What, the sugar-daddying?”

Peter lets out a little huff of amusement, and Martin is _not_ slightly obsessed with how cute that he finds the sound. “Not just that, although in itself the ‘sugar-daddying,’ as you put it, isn’t unpleasant. I’m fond of you, I think. In a way I hadn’t entirely expected when we first began this whole venture. Understanding it is a little beyond me, but well, there you go.”

And now it’s Martin’s turn to respond with nothing but, “oh.”

“Indeed,” Peter replies.

It’s stupid, considering who– what– they are and where they are, but Martin has the oddest impulse to reach out and take Peter’s hand. 

When their fingers brush, Peter jolts like he’s been shocked, and Martin immediately snatches his hand away.

“I’m sorry–”

“What was that?”

“–I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked, I–”

“Do it again?”

“Sorry, I– what?”

“Will you do it again?” Peter says patiently.

Martin frowns. “Peter, you looked like you were about to leap over the side of this lighthouse, I don’t–”

“Only because I wasn’t expecting it. Try again. Please.” Peter’s hand is outstretched, within reaching distance, and Martin only hesitates briefly before carefully intertwining their fingers.

He hears Peter’s breath catch abruptly and almost pulls away before Peter says, “no, don’t,” in a breathy, soft voice, and Martin freezes.

“Are you… alright?”

“It hurts,” Peter admits, and Martin’s about to pull away when he follows up with, “but I think it’s interesting.”

“No offence, Peter, but I really don’t want to be involved in your masochistic experiments.” 

Peter’s grip tightens, and he doesn’t make a move to draw Martin closer, or attempt to step towards him, but he doesn’t let go. They stand, connected, and it’s so utterly normal and at the same time, exhilarating.

“I think I like this,” Peter says, as honest and simple as Martin’s ever heard him. “Do you?”

There’s no other answer in his head.

“I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> various notes/headcanons that don't actually matter but i cherish them:
> 
> I really like the idea of two Lonely avatars being in a QPR and feeding their patron off each other’s loneliness.
> 
> Peter’s aroace, and likes the concept and the humour of sex and love more than the reality of it. Martin’s asexual, sex-neutral, and a huge fan of romance but is more than willing to explore something new with Peter.
> 
> thank you for reading!


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